A Big Night
by blueandblack
Summary: Written for anythingbutgrey's 'Doomed Ship Ficathon' on LJ. The prompt was 'i pull off your jeans/you spill jack and coke on my collar/i'm so sorry for everything.'


Cook hauled Freddie into the shed. He was a mess. A split lip and a blue shiner, that happens - hell that's just another Friday night if your name is James Cook. But the thick line dripping its way to his elbow?

Cook grinned, shook his head.

That was a new one.

"Crazy fucker," he said, dropping Freddie onto the sofa. "Take your shirt off, mate."

Freddie groaned, lifted his arms gingerly, struggled for a couple of seconds, stopped moving, waited for Cook to pull the damn thing over his head.

"Fucking hell," he moaned, "How was I supposed to know he had a knife?"

Cook began tearing the shirt to shreds. He took a long time over it, waited till Freddie had tipped his head back, closed his eyes.

That was when he leaned down, grabbed the bottle they kept under the couch, splashed Wild Turkey over his arm.

Freddie screamed, hit out reflexively and smacked Cook in the mouth. _"What the fuck. What the fuck!_" he wheezed, once he was able to form words.

Cook was laughing. "What'd you want me to do, Fredster? Tell you 'This won't hurt a bit'?"

Freddie closed his eyes again, slumped down low. "What the fuck..." he muttered to himself.

Cook was winding the strips of fabric around his arm. It was fucking _agony._

"So," Cook said when he was done. "Since when are you a fighter not a lover, then? What's that all about, Freds?"

He sounded impressed - and Freddie thought _Of course he sounds impressed_, rolled his eyes, winced.

After a long moment he said "He called my mum a bitch." He sighed, shook his head. "Said she was a bitch and a slut and a psycho, and I'd better watch out for Karen because it looks like she's mummy's little girl."

Cook's eyes widened. "_Fuck me_," he whispered.

A couple of tears slipped down Freddie's bad cheek. It stung a little and maybe he should have been embarrassed. He found he was too tired to bother.

Maybe Cook didn't notice - he didn't laugh, he didn't tease. He just said "Fuck me," again, and "I should finish the bastard off for you."

Freddie grinned briefly, opened his eyes, said in a slow, sleepy voice "He's got a knife, Cook."

Cook shrugged. "I could get a knife," he said.

Freddie laughed, wound up coughing. "Idiot," he mumbled, and more tears fell.

Cook fished around in his lap, pulled out the last scrap of cotton that was clean - more or less. He held it over the end of the bottle, tipped the bottle to soak it, hauled himself up next to Freddie on the sofa and leaned in.

Freddie muttered "What the fuck," each time Cook pressed the cloth to his face, and each time his words blurred further into each other.

"I should take you inside," Cook said. "Get you a doctor."

Freddie shook his head with what little vigor he could muster. "No," he said, "I told you. Dad'll go mental - he'll try and ground me or something. I'm just going to chill out in here till he goes to work."

"Right, and what are you going to do when you still look like shite when he gets back?"

Freddie grinned. "Karen'll sort me out," he said lazily. "She's done my makeup before, you know. Only I was asleep at the time, so she only managed half my face."

Cook snorted. "Right little barbie doll you are."

They sat in silence for a while, and Freddie's eyes kept closing and opening again, much slower than you blink.

Cook swallowed, glanced at the shed door. "Don't you think the old man'd, you know, cut you some slack?" he asked. "If he knew what that fucking piece of shite wanker was telling everyone?"

"No," Freddie said miserably. "Dad doesn't cut slack anymore. About anything."

He breathed in, grimaced, reached out and grabbed Cook's knee like he was going to fall over sitting down.

Cook sighed. He didn't know what to think – what to do. His head was spinning - the night had been a big one and it was beginning to catch up with him.

He reached for the bottle and poured whiskey down his throat.

When he'd set it back down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, tentatively "She'd be proud, though. Your mum. She'd be well proud of you."

He leaned in quickly after that, began dabbing at the place where Freddie's lip was torn, and the voice under his fingers was small and muffled when it said "Would she?"

Cook was close, very close. When he nodded their foreheads touched.

And Freddie closed his eyes, reached up and took the cloth and the hand in his, thought maybe he heard the words _Kiss it better,_ as Cook's mouth found the places where he hurt.


End file.
